


flyboy takes the gold

by TroglodyteMonologue



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Competition, Enemies to Lovers, Frat Boy Keith, Frat Boy Shiro (Voltron), Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Mud, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Wet Clothing, a little hot and heavy ending, more like one sided rivalry to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroglodyteMonologue/pseuds/TroglodyteMonologue
Summary: “That so?”“Yeah.”Shiro seems excited. “Well, you better give it your all then.”“Likewise.”Shiro’s eyes look alive; electricity behind the soft gray.Matt huffs a big, dramatic sigh and wipes his hands over his face. “Oh my god, would you please just take this elsewhere? This sexual tension is making me uncomfortable.”Kappa bro Keith Kogane has absolutely no intentions of joining his university’s Annual Valentine’s Day Stud Run — an obstacle course event for athletic frat bros willing to be ogled for “a good cause”. That is, until he learns that Sigma’s ‘Golden Boy’ Shirogane — Keith’s rival and constant obsession — is going to be competing.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 105
Collections: Sheithlentines 2021





	flyboy takes the gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bavariansugarcookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bavariansugarcookie/gifts).



> My Sheithlentine 2021 gift for bavariansugarcookie!! I hope you like it!!  
> The prompt I selected was: 'Frat au with rivals becoming lovers at a Valentine's Day event' and I hope this tough mudder Valentines day event is something you'll like lol
> 
> also, let’s imagine that this college is in sunny, southern California where winter doesn’t actually exist in February

“I thought you said the Stud Run was for brainless, shallow meatheads looking for an ego boost,” Matt says.

“Shut up,” Keith snaps.

He stands by what he said. Emphatically. As Keith catches a pair of muscle tanked bros with perfect fades comparing biceps, he almost wants to vomit. But he’s committed. Keith’s drive to win overshadows his pride in this case.

The university’s annual Valentine’s Day event has taken over the largest common area on campus in an explosion of paper hearts, food stalls, and pink balloons. Keith would never admit it, but he likes the festive part of it. The February holiday has never meant anything to him, personally. He’s not one for dating and romance and he’s too busy for it anyways (except for the occasional, casual fling). So Keith prefers his Valentine’s Day sans amour. 

While there is plenty of drooling and thirsting over the Stud Run competitors, most of the student spectators come to cheer on their friends and enjoy the day with people who aren’t partners. They don pink tutus, smear glitter on their cheeks, and stumble down from the dorms just a little bit drunk or high with the best of intentions. Everyone giggles over the innuendo laden menu at the hot dog truck and the big ‘Suck On Our Balls’ sign for the boba cart run by the university newspaper. Students get their fortunes read in exchange for a donation to a breast cancer awareness organization and test their pitching arm to drop a poorly costumed Cupid into a dunk tank. 

It’s harmless fun and Keith has been part of the crowd before; even let his friend Allura stick a silly little lipstick kiss tattoo on his cheek his freshman year. But the competition at the center of it all is just the biggest dick measuring fest Keith has ever seen. And he lives the Greek life, so that’s saying something.

Maybe if the event wasn’t such a tool magnet Keith would actually consider competing for a reason other than spite. But the Stud Run brings out the strongest, stupidest, and most self-obsessed in the student body at Altea U. Even if it’s a charity fundraiser, Keith could never bring himself to care about it.

Until now.

“You’re only doing this because of Sigma Shiro, aren’t you?”

Keith’s face scrunches up. “God, why do people actually _call_ him that?”

“I mean, I could call him _Golden Boy_ if you prefer. Because people call him that too,” Matt says as they approach the field’s entrance booth. He points to where four long lines have formed and people are eagerly handing over money in exchange for colored wristbands.

Behind the money takers, on a curtain hanging below a glittery ‘CHOOSE YOUR CHAMPION’ sign, are portraits of all thirty or so competitors. Shiro’s hyper confident, yet charmingly genuine smile is front and center, with his name, his chapter, and ‘aka Golden Boy’ in apt yellow foil lettering just below.

Shiro has never given Keith a reason to dislike him. No slights, no drunken brawls, no wrong looks — by all accounts, Shiro and Keith could very well be friends. But a tension sits between them, placed there by Keith’s hesitancy to like anyone as flawless as Takashi Shirogane. It’s just too suspicious. The guy has it all — the looks, the brains, the _It_ Factor — his perfection is gag worthy. Even when Keith runs into him on fraternity row at 2 AM and Shiro is drunk as a skunk, the young man is all smiles and making friends with the taco truck workers on the street corner. He coasts on a full ride, sports scholarship while also being the most popular tutor at the student help center and regularly volunteers to stock the campus food bank.

Keith is just waiting, _dying_ for Shiro’s big secret to come out. That maybe Shiro can’t swim. Or he’s part of a cult. Or that he’s a rotten lay. Or that he has weak ankles. Something. _Anything_. But the rumor mill always churns in Shiro’s favor. It drives Keith up the wall.

Keith looks for his own portrait and finds his sour expression there — near the bottom and far away from the recognizable cluster of popular faces — the corner of his mouth barely turned up in an attempted smirk. Matt nods to his portrait. “Since when has ‘Flyboy’ been your nickname?”

“Since they asked me to pick one, I don’t know!” Keith crosses his arms. “I’m not here to make a name for myself or anything.”

“You should’ve told me, I woulda come up with a great nickname for you.”

Keith’s eyes narrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah! Like, um, ‘Mad Dog’.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Caveman.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“Mr. Hotrod McSteamy.”

“Please stop talking,” Keith begs as a group of people passes within earshot. 

Matt waves a hand, “Yeah, but why ‘Flyboy’?”

“I think it suits him,” someone says. Keith would recognize that clear, smooth voice anywhere.

Both Keith and Matt turn to find Shiro standing behind them. He’s a gentle giant of a young man with an easy smile and the most impressive set of shoulders Keith has ever seen. Just the sight of him makes Keith’s chest swell and his fingers fidgety. He’s wearing a black tank — sleeve holes cut deep so Keith can see the taut definition of his obliques — black under armor leggings, and a very flattering pair of metallic gold track shorts. Shiro’s snapback sits backwards on his head, his signature tuft of white hair sticking out through the back opening. Compared to Keith’s old joggers and overworn band t-shirt, Shiro actually looks ready for an athletic competition. 

But Shiro could make a potato sack look couture. 

Standing at either shoulder are Shiro’s favorite lackeys (‘friends’ is a better term, but Keith likes to think of them as lackeys): Adam and Curtis. Together, they essentially make the Mean Boys of Sigma. Though, admittedly, none of them are all that mean. Adam is just a little sharp around the edges, Curtis is a little too clueless to be harmful in any way, and Shiro probably doesn’t have a mean bone in his perfect body.

“Shiro,” Keith nods.

“Keith,” Shiro grins.

It’s how they always greet one another. No handshake, no ‘hello’. Keith doesn’t remember when they started doing it, but he’s sure it started because he was having a bad day and wanted to take it out on Shiro. Now it feels like they do it for the sake of tradition. Shiro almost seems fond of their inside greeting; which was absolutely not Keith’s original intention.

“I think you’re bein’ too nice, Shiro,” Matt says, “A name like ‘Flyboy’ should go to someone who is actually ‘ _fly_ ’.”

The Sigma brothers chuckle. Keith elbows Matt in the ribs.

Shiro smiles, but not in a mocking way. “If that’s the case, I still think the name fits.” He’s so nice and easy going it makes Keith want to strangle him. He pays Keith compliments like he actually means them, but Keith knows it’s just for show.

Hating Shiro is a universal impossibility and Keith is not exempt from the rule. In fact, by some outsider accounts some people might mistake Keith and Shiro as friends. But there are plenty of things that Keith dislikes about his self-proclaimed rival. Like his effortless charisma and the way his choice of words just dig underneath Keith’s skin. Or his ability to bulk up and work out like a machine and also keep on top of his studies. Or the way he sometimes flirts with Keith at parties just to rile him up so Keith blows up makes a fool of himself. The list goes on and on. 

Even more important than Keith’s dislike of Shiro: Keith wants Shiro to dislike him back. So that _Keith_ isn’t the only asshole in their situation. But no matter how hard he tries, Shiro’s resolve never cracks.

“Well now that you approve, I have to change it,” Keith fires back.

“I think it might be too late for that,” Adam says and points over Matt’s shoulder.

Keith turns and sees Allura arriving — ever the fashion queen in an off-the-shoulder, pink denim dress — leading a sizable group of her sorority sisters to the main entrance. In her hands, for the whole world to see, is a bright red cardstock sign with the phrase ‘ _Go High, Flyboy!_ ’ in blocky lettering and a two foot cut-out of Keith’s face covered in lipstick kisses. Keith flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears. Allura waves the sign at Keith and she seems so proud of it that he can’t begin to be mad at her.

Romelle, a freshman under Allura’s wing, peeks out from behind the group with a similar sign. The big poster board is black with ‘ _STAY GOLD_ ’ in appropriate metallic lettering and a similarly lipstick smeared cut-out of Shiro’s face.

“Good luck today!” Allura calls across the busy quad area. Shiro waves and the gaggle of sorority girls chitter amongst themselves. Keith wishes he had worn a hat so he could pull it over his face and disappear.

“Damn,” Matt tuts, “I should have made a sign too.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Keith grumbles.

Curtis rests his hands on his hips. “Gotta say, I was surprised to see you on the list, Keith. I always took you for the type who hated Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t hate the _day_ ,” he responds, “I just don’t like the Run.”

“What made you change your mind?” Shiro asks.

_You._

Keith shrugs. “I figured I might as well. It’s my last year. And it’ll take you down a notch when I win,” he says, expression melting into something threatening and sly.

Shiro’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

Shiro seems excited. “Well, you better give it your all then.”

“Likewise.”

Shiro’s eyes look alive; electricity behind the soft gray. 

Matt huffs a big, dramatic sigh and wipes his hands over his face. “Oh my god, would you please just take this elsewhere? This sexual tension is making me uncomfortable.”

Keith doesn’t understand Matt’s meaning.

“It’s check-in time so we should probably get going anyways,” Shiro says, nodding his head toward the field. 

Matt smacks Keith hard on the back. “Good luck! Don’t make a fool of yourself!”

Keith mumbles a sad ‘thanks’. Adam and Curtis give Shiro a few pats, fist bumps, and their own words of encouragement. Keith doesn’t have to wait for Shiro, but he does. They leave their respective friends with nods, heading for the field. 

As they walk the dirt path toward the check-in tent, Keith glances at the various sections of obstacle course equipment set out for the competition. Some things look familiar; obstacles he’s seen in TV shows or in clips on the internet. Others, completely foreign. There are only so many machines in the college gym that can replicate large scale, American Ninja Warrior type of equipment. So Keith has no idea how to approach some of them. But he runs on instinct and instinct hasn’t failed him yet.

As if Shiro can read his mind, he asks, “You nervous?”

“No,” Keith answers too quickly. “You?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Shiro says, though it’s probably a lie. The guy has probably never been nervous or scared in his life.

If anything is going to make Keith nervous, it’s the atmosphere. The booming music, the screaming and cheering, the several hundred people streaming into the stands — all those eyes watching his every move. Well, not all the time. Interest in Keith is substantially dampened by the presence walking beside him. By the time they make it halfway across the field, Shiro has all but waved to everyone in the bleachers and Keith has counted nearly a dozen signs made just for Shiro.

For some inexplicable reason, all the love and air-blown kisses aimed at Shiro annoy Keith.

His eyes flicker down to the shimmery, gold fabric hugging Shiro’s hips. “Nice shorts,” Keith says to get Shiro’s attention, tone dripping with judgement.

Shiro pauses his celebrity waving to look down at his clothes. “Oh, the guys made a bet with me. They said there was no way I’d still be single by Valentine’s Day. I said I probably still would be. Wearing these was the punishment for losing.”

A bunch of mangled, unnameable feelings tangle together in Keith’s chest. “So, you’re finally seeing somebody?” Keith asks, trying his best to sound casual.

Shiro looks sideways at Keith with a twinkle in his eye and grins, “No, I’m still single. I liked the shorts so I wore them anyway.”

Keith responds with a noncommittal grunt. He doesn’t care about Shiro’s love life. At least, he shouldn’t.

“Do you think they’re silly?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah, kind of.”

“But do they look good?”

“How should I know? I’m not into that kind of stuff.”

“When you say stuff do you mean fashion or — ”

Someone knocks shoulders with Shiro. It’s a hard, deliberate taunt. Keith twists to look at the offender first. Because he’ll be damned if anyone is going to overshadow the competition between him and Shiro. A flash of white hair is the only identifier needed.

“You got a bone to pick, Lotor?” Keith hisses through his teeth.

“Keith, it’s fine,” Shiro says, as if Keith was coming to his rescue or something. As if.

Lotor, douchebag darling of the richest chapter on Frat Row, stands as tall as Shiro with about half the benevolence and three times the arrogance. His long, white hair is pulled back in a ponytail and he’s dressed in midnight blue designer wear that makes it seem like he’s trying to qualify for the Olympics — not compete in some down and dirty college event. Despite his flamboyance, Keith knows to take Lotor seriously. He’s got a sharp mind and even sharper ambitions, with the right amount of resourcefulness and ruthlessness to see his goals to fruition. Beating him will be as difficult as beating Shiro.

Though by his targeting, it’s safe to assume Lotor only sees Shiro as competition.

“Oh, I am so very sorry. I didn’t even see you there, Shiro,” Lotor says, feigning his innocence. 

“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Shiro gracefully concedes.

“Quite,” the white haired man grins. “Best of luck today. When I saw you on the docket, I was certainly surprised. Competing against you might actually be a challenge for me.”

Shiro nods, ever pleasant. “I’ll do my best.”

“Though I doubt your participation will change the outcome. I have been the reigning champion for the last two years, I anticipate a continuation of that streak.”

For the most part, Keith ignores Lotor. They have met on more than one occasion. But they don’t run in the same circles and Keith can’t be bothered to bring unnecessary drama into his life. But he’s on edge, so he takes Lotor’s slight to Shiro more personally than he should.

“You gotta work on your intimidation tactics, Lotor. We’re not in high school anymore,” Keith snaps.

Lotor’s discerning eyes turn on Keith for the first time. “I’m sorry, _who_ are _you_?”

Keith’s overwhelming rage flips him into autopilot — with his goal being a square fist to Lotor’s stupid face. But when Shiro wraps a hand around his arm, gently pulling him back, Keith’s red vision goes back to normal. 

“This is Keith. He’s Kappa,” Shiro offers.

Lotor gives Keith a once over. “Yes, well, Kappa will take just about anybody, won’t they?”

“Oh, suck a bag of — ” Keith lunges, but Shiro pulls him back again.

“We have to check in. It’s been nice catching up. Good luck!” Shiro says, deliberately cutting their interaction short. 

“Same to you, Shiro. And you too, Kirk.”

Keith snaps his jaws. “Keith.”

Lotor waves his hand as if it’s an acceptable, wordless apology. He walks off with an air of superiority, ponytail swinging back and forth. Keith wants to beat Shiro more, but Lotor is a close second on his shit list. 

“That guy is such a tool. If I lose to you, I at least want to rank higher than him,” Keith mumbles.

“Can’t win if you can’t compete ‘cause you got in a fight before it even begins,” Shiro reasons.

“What are you, my mother?” Keith yanks his arm away from Shiro’s grasp. They’ve been touching for far too long and Shiro’s hand is so hot on Keith’s skin it feels like it could leave a mark. He stalks away toward the check-in station, forcing Shiro to catch up with him.

They sign a release form, get a participant’s lanyard, and are given the lowdown on how the event will operate. The reality of the situation sparks Keith’s nerves, but he does his best not to show it. Especially in front of Shiro. They stretch together off to the side of the field, sizing up other competitors as they arrive. Shiro gives Keith some pointers and Keith pretends to ignore them all. But he does eventually try the new warm up suggestions when Shiro isn’t looking because Shiro is a human at peak performance so he must be doing something right.

Soon after, loud music pumps from the stadium speakers and signals the beginning of the event. A man with orange hair and an equally orange mustache jogs on to the field. Keith has seen him at other sporting events — a commentator of sorts for Altea U events. He seems beloved by the students for his eccentric and exuberant behavior. The host greets the crowded bleachers with a level of energy Keith could not replicate if he tried. He welcomes the students, introduces himself as ‘Coran Coran the Gorgeous Man’, and works the crowd up into a frenzy with a few jokes and jabs. 

“Now it’s time to meet our contestants!” Coran finally announces and the butterflies in Keith’s stomach do flips. He shifts his weight back and forth and flexes his hands. Shiro notices and places a big hand on Keith’s shoulder. 

“Hey, you’re gonna do great,” he says.

Shiro’s so perfect it makes Keith almost wretch. He lifts his chin and petulantly responds, “Yeah, better than you at least.”

The larger man purses his lips together in a lopsided grin. No matter how Keith taunts Shiro he always seems to just smile and take it. As if he likes it. Keith doesn’t _understand_.

Not a moment later, Shiro is the first to be called to the field.

“We’re starting off strong here, folks. Our first stud is big and lean and a running machine — but also sugar, spice, and everything nice — give it up for the Golden Boy of Sigma, Takashi Shirogaaaneeee!” Coran calls.

Shiro takes off jogging to the middle of the field. The crowd roars. Shiro waves, his form strong and steady as he runs. Keith’s eyes idly drift down to the golden shorts and notices how the material stretches around Shiro’s backside when he moves. They do look _good_ on him.

The introductions continue as the Stud Run participants line up on an open area of the field for all to see. The crowd reacts accordingly to their favorites. Keith waits to the side, expecting a lukewarm welcome for himself. They are about a dozen contenders in when:

“Our next stud floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee. But don’t expect any honey from him, folks! The Flyboy from Kappa — Keith Kogaaaneee!” 

Keith has no idea how they came up with that introduction, but it’s already happened so he has to roll with it. The applause and yelling from the crowd is more than he expects — with one pocket being particularly raucous. He glances up and sees a corner crowded with his friends including Matt and Allura. Keith feels a little less nervous as he runs to take his place in the line up. He’s noticeably one of the shorter competitors, but he knows that only means so much. He’s as limber and athletic as the rest of them. If anything, Keith has agility on his side.

A few more students take their place in the line-up before the final contestant is announced.

“And last but certainly not least — a young man who needs no introduction to this field — our two-time champion from Lambda, Lotor Kral-Zeraaaaa!”

Lotor jogs onto the field as if he owns it. Which, Keith realizes, is distinctly possible because Lotor’s family has given plenty of money to the university. 

“And there you have it,” Coran says, “Big round of applause for all twenty-four of our handsome, talented, young competitors!” 

Keith can’t help but glance over at Shiro and finds Shiro looking back at him. Keith quickly faces forward again.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen and gentlefolk of all ages — you have not given your daddy’s hard earned money to these fine, strapping men because you hope to win it back. Oh no! Should your champion win, you will receive not one, but _two_ credits for the dining halls!” A sizable cheer erupts from the crowd. Coran points a finger in the air. “And! A wonderful Stud Run 2021 keychain — so hold onto those wristbands! Most importantly, the charity of your champion’s choosing will receive the full amount you have _donated_ to this wonderful event! Let’s find out which charities and non-profits our competitors have chosen, shall we?”

“Let’s start over here.” Coran moves to Shiro and tilts the microphone in his direction. “What charity have you selected, Shiro?”

“The Southern Poverty Law Center,” he answers.

Coran shimmies his shoulders. “Oh yes, civil rights. Very sexy!”

Keith doesn’t pay attention to the rest. He’s too busy watching the crowd and looking at all the embarrassing signs. Including his own in Allura’s hands. It’s only when the microphone is in front of his face that he startles back.

“And Keith?”

“Um, Direct Relief,” he stutters.

Coran throws up a hand. “Global humanitarian work! Yes, we love a man who thinks _big_.” Keith sees Shiro chuckle out of the corner of his eye and flushes a deep scarlet.

The line of questioning ends with Lotor saying his choice is Habitat for Humanity and Keith finds himself getting impatient. He watches as a group of Stud Run volunteers set up the last of the obstacles in the track surrounding the open field. He just wants to _start_. 

Coran rounds back toward the center. “For those of you joining us for the first time this year, here’s how this is going to go.” The host motions to the field. “There are four official rounds in the competition. The first will be done in three groups of eight. This course favors speed above all. Out of each group of 8, only the top four to complete the event will move to the second round. That means, unfortunately, half of you will be eliminated in the starting round. So don’t hold back!”

Keith feels confident that he has the first round in the bag.

“From then on out, all athletes will compete simultaneously! Our second round relies on skill and sharp thinking — you must consider an approach outside of the box! That is all I will say! The first six to complete the course — once again, half — will move on to the semi-finals!”

Also a round Keith expects to do well in.

“The third round — the semi-finals — is our strength course. Let’s see those biceps, contestants!” Coran says.

Majority of the competitors lift up their arms to show off. The crowd cheers. Keith crosses his own in silent protest. He’s got nothing to prove to a bunch of strangers.

Coran dramatically fans his face with his hand. “Oh, be _still_ my _heart_ ,” he feigns and then snaps back, “We’re gonna put those muscles to good use! Hopefully you won’t be too tired because only three of you will move on to the finals.”

Keith will just have to do his best.

“And last, our three finalists will be tested in every way possible: agility, strength, technique, and, most importantly, _tenacity_! It’s a doozy of a round so everyone better hold onto their butts because it’ll be a nail biter! The first to finish will be our Champion!”

More obligatory cheering from the crowd. Though, Keith has to admit, people look like they’re having fun.

“But that’s enough chit-chat! General rule: have good sportsmanship, contestants. No tantrums, yes? Alright! Let’s see who our first 8 competitors are!” Coran motions wide to a big screen on the far side of the field. 

Keith’s picture flashes up on the monitor with seven other contestants. Neither Shiro nor Lotor are in the first group. Keith chews on the inside of his lip. Not being able to observe the course first puts him at a disadvantage, but at least all participants in the first round will have the same experience.

“Contestants, please make your way to the start of the course! Those observing, please stay on the field,” Coran announces.

Without hesitation, Keith heads for a person waving a flag at the far corner of the track. He passes Shiro on the way.

“Good luck,” he says.

“Won’t need it,” Keith shoots back.

From what he can tell, the first round is relatively straight forward: make it all the way around the track and don’t trip or else you might get left behind. Keith takes the second to outside lane — his chalk starting line marked a few meters ahead of the inside lane. Keith likes that he can only see the one competitor on the outer lane. He ties his hair up in a small bun and tests the compact dirt beneath his shoes. The last thing he needs is to eat it right out the gate.

Coran comes to stand on the inside of the track. “Alright, contestants! What you see before you are four agility obstacles followed by a nice, long stretch of track. You must complete all obstacles in their entirety. Meaning: if you trip up halfway through, you must go back to the beginning of the obstacle. Our referees will keep you in check! You will then finish the course right back where you started. First four to cross the white chalk line again move on to the second round. Understood? Wonderful.”

Keith nods alongside the other seven, though he’s half paying attention. He zones in on the path in front of him, doing his best to block out the music and the noise from students in the stands. The person holding the flag raises it high into the sky.

“Best of luck to you all. On your mark — ”

Keith braces one foot behind him and gently bends at the knees.

“ — Get set — ”

He pushes out a slow breath; relaxes his shoulders.

“ — Go!” The flag whips down.

Keith takes off like a bat out of hell. He’s always been fast, but he feels like he’s flying. Not even the guy in the outer lane is in his field of vision. But he knows better than to look back.

“ — And they’re off!”

The first obstacle is three long lines of hay bales across the 8 lanes. The bales are too tall to climb over without losing speed and too wide to simply get a running jump over. So Keith runs full steam ahead with an idea in his head. He’s seen parkour videos before — he knows what to do.

Without slowing, Keith plants both hands on the compacted hay, swings his hips to the side, and tucks his feet underneath him. The momentum flings him over the bale with no problem at all. He gets the timing right on all three lines and clears the hay bales with little to no effort. He can see the silhouette of a few runners at the edges of his vision — apparently, most competitors did well.

“ — Our contestants made quick work of the first obstacle! Flyboy takes the lead with Ziggy and Twinkle Toes nipping at his heels — ”

The second obstacle — a long, wooden balance beam — brings down the pace. Keith decides to be safe than sorry and takes more time than he should. He keeps his feet steady, arms out to balance his body. Behind him, he hears someone curse as they slip from the beam; forced back to the beginning. The adrenaline and the sight of three people moving ahead of him makes him rush the last few feet. 

He almost slips — teetering for a few moments before jumping the last two feet. Keith takes off running.

“ — Ziggy, Cannonball Jack, Cobra Kai, and Flyboy all vying for the lead — ”

The third obstacle is a cluster of staggered truck tires. Keith’s movements are precise and quick, easily stepping one foot in each tire hole one after the other. The person on the outside lane trips and partially falls into Keith’s lane. On reflex, Keith leaps over the body tangled in tires and sticks the landing. Distantly, he can hear the crowd roar.

As he approaches the final obstacle — the hardest yet — Keith’s heart pounds against his chest with the force of a battering ram. 

A set of five hurdles in quick succession stand before him. They’re shorter than the track and field standard, but still a challenge for most. Keith has never jumped hurdles before — he has no idea what his body is actually going to do as he approaches. But like they always do, his trusty instincts kick in. Keith jumps. He has good timing and a nice spring. He keeps his legs up high; makes sure not to snag his back foot or ankle on the way down. He leaps over each one with relative ease, able to keep a good pace. 

He swears he hears the crowd get louder with each hurdle. But he’s got such singular focus, it’s hard to say.

Behind him, he can hear the clatter of other people’s hurdles as they trip and tumble. Keith can’t see anyone in his periphery. He runs like fire nips at his heels and only slows when he’s crossed back over the chalk line completely. Keith jogs to a stop, chest heaving. 

“Incredible!” Coran’s loud voice echoes through the stadium, “Flyboy finishes first in his group in one of the strongest starts I have _ever_ seen in Stud Run history! This boy can really _fly_!”

A proud grin cracks Keith’s expression. He turns to look for Shiro. The young man with the shock of white hair stands off to the side and he eyes Keith right back. He’s got his strong arms crossed, but Keith can sense the buzz under his skin from halfway across the field.

 _Top that, Mr. Perfect_ , Keith wordlessly says with a provocative lift of his chin. 

_Gladly_ , Shiro’s eyes say in return.

For a moment, Keith forgets about the other people competing and all the students watching from the bleachers. He doesn’t care about them. He only cares about Shiro. Beating Shiro, that is. 

Someone jogs past him — a sorry sixth placer — and Keith snaps back to reality. He steps off the dirt track and back onto grass, pointedly ignoring Shiro. Keith hovers near the water station and grabs a bottle while Coran calls for the second round of competitors to line up.

Shiro is among them.

His sheer athleticism is infuriating. Just watching Shiro run is an experience all on it’s own. He looks almost bionic — all six foot two inches of pure muscle operating with absolute precision. With all his bulk, he’s not as agile as Keith. But he clears each obstacle without hesitation. He crosses the finish line with an easily won first place.

“And the Golden Boy takes first place in his lot! Well done, Shiro!” Coran announces.

Shiro sidles up to Keith. Just to prove that he’s a good sport, Keith hands him an unopened water bottle. “Good job. But I think I was faster,” Keith says, looking at the next line up of competitors and not Shiro’s flushed cheeks and glistening brow.

“I think you might’ve been too,” Shiro says. He takes the water and dumps a quarter of it on the back of his neck. The liquid glances off his shoulders and soaks into his shirt. Shiro rubs his nape and grins. “Shame there’s no official time so you can’t prove it.”

Lotor competes in the final lot. In a surprise to no one, he crosses the finish line first. He’s far less humble about it, however; actually approaching the spectators with wide open arms to receive his applause and praise. When he passes the water station a few moments later, Lotor doesn’t even give Keith a sideways glance. Keith gnashes his teeth together. He has more to prove, apparently. 

The send-off for the eliminated competitors feels a bit unceremonious, but Coran is the type of host to keep the ball rolling at a fast pace. He ushers the remaining twelve contestants to one side of the field. Shiro comes to stand at his right. A muddy pit with zig-zagged wire strung across it lays before them. Very military boot camp-esque. Keith is glad he’s worn a shirt he doesn’t care about.

“Well done on making it to the next round, studs! Some love for our contestants!” The emcee congratulates and waves his hand, prompting a roar from the crowd. Keith makes the mistake of glancing over at the stands and pinpoints the sign with his face on it. Allura jumps up and down. Matt stands nearby. Somehow — in the fifteen minutes between seeing Matt last and the start of the Run — his friend has acquired a large piece of white cardboard. And written in Matt’s bold and somewhat sloppy handwriting:

_TAKE ME IN YOUR COCK-PIT, FLYBOY!! ♡_

“Matt’s got the spirit, doesn’t he?” Shiro muses, leaning a little too close to Keith’s ear for his whisper to be heard over the noise. 

Keith wants to die. He wants to strangle his friend and then he wants to just shrivel up and die. He has nothing to say to Shiro because his embarrassment has wiped every witty comeback from his brain. So he looks forward and ignores everything but the mud pit.

Coran stands on a large cross section of a tree trunk, his head a few feet taller than everyone else. The crowd settles. “Not to say the last round was easy, but now the _real_ challenges begin! Before you are four very difficult challenges. Same rules as before apply!”

As he comes off his humiliation high, Keith’s eyes travel further than the mud and wires. A tall, vertical wall made of two by fours blocks the rest of the path. It won’t be easy to climb, especially after the mud. But if he gets a running start, he might be able to make it.

“You will have to use your noggin for this one, boys. Think outside the box! Don’t be afraid to get messy!” Coran says. “Any questions? _Too bad!_ ” The madman gives a signal with his arm.

A ready Stud Run volunteer raises the flag.

“ _Onyourmarkgetsetgo!!!_ ”

Taken by surprise, all contestants stumble the first couple of steps.

Keith dives, careful not to hit his head on the wires, and his chest hits the mud so hard it knocks the wind from his lungs. The water mixed in with the dirt hasn’t made the ground any less unyielding. He crawls on his stomach below the criss-crossed wires and does his best to worm forward with no easy mobility. With every shuffle, Keith seems to get more dug into the pit. His shirt and pants are weighed down. It’s like trying to swim through molasses, but worse.

Shiro, on the other hand, does remarkably well despite his size. He gets a head start on almost everyone else.

And Keith does his best, but he knows he’s already behind most competitors. His mind is whirring, trying to come up with a solution to his problem. Because Coran said to think outside the box, right? He’s always been good at that.

Keith notices a length of thick rope buried in the sludge beside him. He yanks on it and it’s slack — a completely unattached rope. But he knows it has to be there for a reason. He just has to figure it out. Keith glances sideways and sees most contestants already a torso-length ahead of him.

“Keith!”

He looks up and Shiro is standing at the end of the mud pit, caked from head to toe. Even his shock of white hair is flecked with dirt. He holds the other end of the rope in his hands.

“Grab on!” he yells.

And Keith doesn’t know why. He hesitates.

“Just grab on and duck your head! Trust me!” 

Shiro is one of the most trustworthy people he knows. He’s also no idiot. There’s a reason for lending a helping hand. So against all of Keith’s pride and natural instincts, he does what Shiro says. He takes the rope in both hands, makes his body small and tense, and closes his eyes.

Shiro pulls on the rope and Keith’s body goes sliding through the mud with ease, moving at nearly four times the rate he was going before. When he reaches the end, Shiro even takes him by the elbow and helps him to his feet. Keith doesn’t bother wiping away the grime — there’s no time for that.

“It’s teamwork. That’s the key to this course. You can’t do it alone,” Shiro says, hushed so the other contenders don’t hear.

Keith watches as his fellow competitors try to climb the vertical walls, slipping and sliding with all their might. It’s too tall and no one can gain any traction. Even Lotor gracelessly falls on his backside and swears at the sky. Another clue is that there are six walls — one for each pair.

“I’ll give you a boost over.”

Shiro is already braced at the base of the wall, hands locked together for a foothold. He bounces at the knees. “Keith!”

Coran’s voice booms over the speakers. “ — Our studs are having some trouble here folks! What ever will they do? —” 

“Why are you so sure I’ll help you back?” Keith asks, spitting dirt from his mouth.

Shiro grins, “‘Cause you’ll probably need me for the rest of the course. And, that’s the kind of person you are.”

Leave it to Shiro to say something utterly charming and infuriating in the midst of chaos. 

Keith wipes his shoes against the grass and backs up a few steps. He gets a running start, understanding that if he misses Shiro’s mark, he’ll go flying into the wall and look like a complete fool. But Shiro adjusts for Keith. His foot lands in Shiro’s hands and his impromptu partner drops his hips at the same time Keith does. 

Between Shiro’s lift and Keith’s jump, it’s overkill. Keith’s lithe body goes flying up and his whole torso clears the top of the wall. He hooks his arms out and catches himself on the bracing behind the obstacle. His chest will likely be bruised, but he’s running on adrenaline so Keith doesn’t care. He clamors less than gracefully over the top onto a waiting platform.

Keith doesn’t think twice about throwing down one end of a coiled rope he finds at the top. Keith steps his whole weight on to the other end as Shiro starts his climb and even does his best to help hoist him over. They fall in a muddy heap on the platform, chests heaving. Shiro’s meaty leg lays heavily over Keith’s hips, but he can’t be bothered to push it away.

He doesn’t understand why that all felt so… _right_. It’s like they had been teammates before or something.

“ — Flyboy and the Golden Boy have done it! They are the first to make it over the Great Wall! — ”

Keith untangles from Shiro and stumbles to his feet first. “C’mon, let’s show ‘em how it’s done,” he says. Keith still has his pride, so he doesn’t offer out a hand. Shiro doesn’t need it anyways.

His course partner wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and stands. “Yeah.”

The third obstacle puzzles them both at first. It’s a triangular shaped platform suspended up over the ground by large springs. Long sheets of red plastic surround the platforms and a sign near the edge says ‘The floor is lava.’ Somehow, they have to get across the sloped platform together.

“We have to hold hands,” Shiro says suddenly.

Because Keith is confident in his masculinity and because they’re on a time crunch as other contestants start to make it over their walls, Keith reaches over and takes Shiro’s hand without question. Shiro’s hand is big and warm.

Even through the mud, the pink that flashes across Shiro’s cheeks is vibrant. Keith reacts in kind. And his heart skips a few beats. Just a few.

“I meant like this,” Shiro corrects, noticeably shaken. He turns his body toward Keith, crosses their arms at the wrist, and takes both of Keith’s hands in a strong grip. The plan clicks in Keith’s head.

“Oh, right. Got it,” he nods. He feels like an idiot, but he doesn’t have time to wallow.

The first maneuver is predictably the most difficult. Timing it so that their feet give the right pressure at the right moment is hard and they almost slip off the wobbly platform twice. But once they’ve got their feet planted on their respective slopes, it gets easier. They lock at the hands, using the pull of each other’s weight to keep them from falling backwards. The pressure of their stances keeps them upright and they shuffle sideways carefully.

As they crab walk the length of the rocking platform, grasping at each other’s hands tight, Keith has a very intrusive, bothersome thought: Shiro looks very sexy and cool when he’s determined. Keith has never seen it up close — that tenacity and conviction. But he can see it now in the hard line of Shiro’s brow; in the way he rends his bottom lip between his perfect teeth. Physical prowess only makes up half of his appeal. The other half is good attitude and pure spirit.

One of Keith’s hands slips and he jerks backward from the lost tether. Shiro grasps for his wrist and pulls him back up. “I got you,” he says through gritted teeth. The feeling that blooms in Keith’s chest almost makes him slip again. They make it to the end of the platform and quickly hop off still holding hands. For the sake of balance.

“ — Flyboy and the Golden Boy have done it again! But Kral-Zera and Cannonball Jack are close behind — ”

The fourth obstacle is a wall climb. Keith and Shiro gaze up at the two twenty-five foot walls that reach high into the sky; a finishing platform at the very top. The walls stand parallel to one another at a fair distance. Shiro goes between them and tries to touch both sides with his wingspan. He can’t.

“Back-to-back,” Keith realizes, breathlessly. “We have to climb back-to-back.”

They get into position. “Start on your right,” he instructs and Shiro grunts an affirmative. Keith locks arms with Shiro at the elbows, presses back against the strong expanse of his shoulders, and takes the first step. He’s glad the triangle platform scraped away most of the dirt and mud from the bottom of his shoes because a straight twenty-foot drop would likely send one of them to the nearby hospital. 

It takes a little effort to figure out the right amount of pressure and the rhythm. Shiro’s legs are bigger and stronger, so he almost flattens Keith against the wall on the first push. But once they get the delicate balance right, they move upward with more confidence than the previous obstacle.

“You know, if you didn’t hate me so much,” Shiro huffs, “I’d say we make a great team.”

“I don’t hate you,” Keith answers. 

“Could have — ” A roar of the crowd distracts him for a second, “ — Fooled me.”

Two shaky, in sync steps later, Keith and Shiro make it to the top. They shuffle to the side, grab hold of some convenient metal scaffolding, and roll onto the narrow platform.

“ — Kral-Zera and Cannonball Jack take first place! But Flyboy and the Golden Boy are right behind in second! It was a near tie! — ”

Keith bends at the waist, rests his hands on his knees, and pants. He feels okay, but his muscles are tensed and strained. Even worse, he feels mentally and emotionally torn. Keith lifts his head and Shiro is across from him, raising his arms to the sky in a tall stretch. His shirt hikes up with the movement, exposing a perfect band of skin near his navel and above his stupid, metallic shorts. They’re less flashy now — tarnished with mud.

“I don’t hate you, Shiro,” Keith says. He feels a cool sweat droplet slide over his temple. “Not even a little bit.”

Shiro’s expression is unreadable. But if Keith were to guess, he might call it ‘hope’.

Keith didn’t have to add that last sentiment. It’s a little overkill; a little too sentimental. There are plenty of things about Shiro that Keith doesn’t like. There are at least a dozen things he does that just piss Keith off to kingdom come. Right? _Right?_

As they stand at the top of the high platform practically staring at one another, Keith feels the resolve slipping through his fingers. His resolve to beat Shiro. His need to say something snarky to keep Shiro at an arm’s distance. The thin veil between his consciousness and his true feelings for Shiro starts to fade.

Keith panics.

Shiro opens his mouth to say something, but Coran’s head suddenly appears over the edge of the platform and startles both of them.

“Nice job on making it to the final round boys! Now come on down!” he exclaims.

They climb down the ladder back to solid ground. They line up. It makes sense that Keith and Shiro should stand next to each other after teaming up, but Keith sort of wishes he could put a little more space between them. Six contestants are sent away with a round of applause. Only six remain in the line up — the best of the best. Keith silently feels proud for making it so far. He searches for his friends in the crowd and forgives their ridiculous signs with a wave. Allura and Matt pretend to swoon.

“Oh my goodness, you boys are so very, very _dirty_!” Coran exclaims, wiping a clump of mud from Lotor’s shoulder. “The next round will be very difficult with you slipping and sliding everywhere. So shall we bring in the cleaning crew? Cleaning creeeeewww!!”

 _Ah._ Here comes the part Keith hates about the Stud Run the most. 

Before Keith can even think to run away, volunteers appear on either side of the line brandishing very large water hoses. The water sprays hard, fast, and it’s _damn_ cold. Keith puts his arms out, trying to block some of the pressure. It doesn’t hurt, but the water jets heavy enough to knock the mud soaked into his clothes. When it’s all over and done with, Keith’s embarrassment sets in. The wet t-shirt half-time has the crowd whistling and cheering. It’s all well intentioned fun and most of the contestants eat up the attention. They slick their hair back and wipe their foreheads with the wet hem of their t-shirts to expose their abs. But Keith has the slightest build of them all and he’s self-conscious of that. He can’t compete. So he just crosses his arms over his chest and lets everyone else pull all the eager, wandering eyes.

But it’s Shiro — with little to no ceremony — who takes off his shirt first.

Just a quick tug and the loose black tank is on a wet heap on the ground. And Shiro has the physique of a goddamn Adonis. 

The crowd goes absolutely _bananas_. 

Keith stares. He’s seen Shiro shirtless before. Just not so up close and person. Shiro’s wet nipples are so… _stiff_ in the brisk afternoon air.

Thankfully, Shiro’s peacocking only prompts two others to take off their shirts: Lotor and a very showboat-y competitor nicknamed Pocket Rocket. The other two, alongside Keith, keep their clothes and dignity intact.

Coran reappears, fanning himself with a hand. “My, oh my. I might need to cool down myself now. Some love for our hunky hunky contestants, please!” He prompts another round of screaming and applause from the bleachers.

Shiro glances over and catches Keith still looking. He grins, “What?” 

Keith tries to play it off with some judgemental attitude. “ _Really_?” 

“Keeping a wet shirt on at this temperature is going to be cold. This way, I’ll dry off faster,” Shiro shrugs, “And all that water’s gonna weigh me down.”

“Whatever.” 

The logic is sound, but Keith still isn’t going to take off his shirt.

“My dear Studs, you have made it to the semi-final round,” Coran says, suddenly very grave in his delivery. “You have been tested on your speed, your teamwork and problem solving skills, and now: your strength. Yes, this next round you’re gonna have to use your muscles! So I hope you’ve been doing your push ups and drinkin’ those protein packed smoothies because you’re gonna have to give it everything you’ve got!”

Admittedly, Keith is nervous. He has some strength and he’s got a great awareness of his body and how it moves, but he lacks raw power. The other, more muscled contestants have a leg up on him. So Keith has to make up for it with the sheer power of will. 

The semi-final six are guided to the start of their course. Keith pointedly moves to a different spot in the line-up away from Shiro. Coran rattles off some more nonsense with a few vague rules, but Keith gets the gist. He’s more focused on the four tasks immediately ahead of him.

The flag goes up. The flag swings down and Coran gives them the ‘go’.

The course starts with a tire. A giant, half ton tire that Keith has only ever seen on monster trucks and when he’s passing by one of those chic crossfit gyms. They have to flip it several times over to another chalk line that feels like it’s miles away. Keith doesn’t do well and immediately falls behind the rest of the pack. He struggles on the first flip and the second; and only realizes his technique and form mistake when he takes a few precious seconds to watch how Shiro uses his arms, back, _and_ legs to move the rubber wheel. Keith’s tire stumbles across the line and his muscles are already starting to ache.

“ — Golden Boy and Kral Zera are neck and neck as they finish the rings! — ”

Keith is dead last as he approaches the second obstacle. It’s a jungle gym apparatus of sorts; with a line of rings dangling from a metal truss structure and a large pool of water below to catch anyone who falls. Keith has the shoulders and upper body strength to support his own weight so he takes to the challenge with more confidence. He also takes the chance to shrink the distance between himself and his competitors. Keith swings far and skips some rings, using the momentum of his body weight more than the strength of his shoulders to propel himself forward. With one missed grip he could easily end up in the water, but he’s lucky. 

In one last ditch effort to overtake fifth place, Keith swings hard and makes a hail mary jump for the platform on the other side. He sticks the landing and Cannonball Jack is left behind in sixth place.

“ — Oh ho! That was quite the maneuver from Flyboy! Is that allowed? — I say it’s allowed! Well done! — ”

The third obstacle is deceivingly hard. It’s an expanse of netting across a good length of the field, tacked down low to the ground. Keith gets down on his hands and knees like before and crawls underneath it. The net has an oppressive weight. The weave is wrapped in fabric, but Keith imagines that the actual cable at the core must be made of metal. It’s a near impossible thing to push his back against it and crawl on his knees. There are a few bodies nearby and in front of him — Keith still has a chance to claw his way to third.

Keith changes his tactics. If he can’t move against the net, then he can move _under_ it. He stoops low to the ground and army crawls as best as he can, minimizing the drag of the heavy web on his back and shoulders. He conserves energy that way and overtakes fourth place because one contestant is running out of steam. Keith escapes the net with grass stains all down his legs.

The last obstacle, Keith thinks, might be where he loses his chance at the finals. 

He’s never done a salmon ladder before. The two wooden columns with seven notched rungs seems like an insurmountable feat for a rookie. Only celebrities and fictional superheroes can pull off an exercise so insane. But Keith has to at least try. The competitor next to him slams his bar into the second rung and lands crookedly in the third, causing him to fall.

Keith lifts his arms and takes his bar in hand.

“ — Kral-Zera comes in at a cozy second place! — ”

Which means…

Keith looks up and Shiro is right across from him on the finishing platform. Leave it to him to take first in the strength category.

Shiro watches Keith. He doesn’t even bother looking at the rest of the contestants. His sharp attention almost makes Keith lose focus. It’s intense to be under Shiro’s gaze like that. But then Keith notices Shiro making a deliberate, yet subtle motion with his hands. He balls his hands into fists and slowly pulls them further apart.

_Widen your grip._

Keith could be stubborn. He could refuse the help (or cheating, maybe it’s cheating) and just bulldoze through like he does everything else that frustrates him. But he probably won’t make it to the top. Keith desperately wants to make it to the final round.

And, apparently, Shiro wants that as well.

Keith widens his grip — cool metal rasping against his fingers — and licks his lips.

“ — And Cannonball Jack is tapping out, folks! He’s gracefully taking sixth place. Very well done, Jack, very well done — ”

Shiro taps his stomach with his palm. _Use your core._

Then he pulls one knee up to his chest, pretending to stretch. _Tuck in your legs._

Shiro nods. _You can do this, Keith._

At least, that’s what Keith’s brain interprets from a simple head nod.

“ — Our last semi-finalists are struggling with the salmon ladder. Flyboy hasn’t even attempted it yet — ”

Keith stretches his wrists. He pulls in a long breath and pushes it back out. Then, he does what he thinks he should do in conjunction with Shiro’s secret tips. He uses his core and his legs to get an upward momentum and supplements with his arms and shoulders for a last boost of strength at the top. The bar lands in the second rung with a _CLACK!_ It’s satisfying and, admittedly, very cool. Keith could get used to working out with the ladder. He lands the third and fourth rungs before he feels the strain in his back and shoulders from obstacles of courses past.

“ — Flyboy is halfway up! And so is Pocket — Oh no, nevermind, Pocket Rocket just fell down — ”

Keith rests for a few moments. If he panics and rushes it, he’ll likely fall because he won’t pay attention to his technique. Only when he’s ready does he reactivate his arms and shoulders and renews his climb.

Five.

Six.

The crowd screams. It takes a few seconds for Keith to realize they’re screaming his name. Almost chanting, rhythmically. Complete strangers — rooting for _him_. An ego boost has never felt so good.

Keith gets one more rush of energy and he jumps, landing soundly in the seventh rung. The stands go wild. His arms feel like jello.

Keith swings on the bar, careful not to unseat it from its notch, and leaps to a waiting platform. He jogs — high on adrenaline and wobbly from muscle exhaustion — to where Shiro, Lotor, and Coran are waiting. Shiro beams. Lotor sneers. Coran throws a hand up in the sky, “And Flyboy takes third, qualifying for our final Stud Run round!”

A volunteer brings him a towel and a bottle of water while Coran riffs with the crowd to give the final three a semblance of a break.

“Nice job,” Shiro says.

“Thanks.” It’s like his body reacted on it’s own. Keith never intended to express gratitude toward Shiro. Ever. It’s probably because he’s too tired to run away or say something snide in return. And because Shiro helped him and he feels guilty.

Lotor stalks over, hands on his hips. “I am surprised you made it this far,” he says, off handedly, “But don’t get your hopes up. You’re not built for the big leagues, Kenneth.”

_Ugh._

Shiro steps forward. “Take a long walk off a short pier, Lotor.”

Shiro being combative is _new_. 

“Is that how you trash talk, Shirogane? You sound like my mother,” Lotor mocks.

Keith caps his water bottle. “Nah, your mother doesn’t sound like that.”

Lotor crosses his arms. “And how would you know what my mother sounds like?”

“‘Cause I had her screamin’ my name last night,” Keith says, “Your daddy too.” Clearly, he’s not _that_ tired.

It is such a clear and open opportunity to Keith. Rule number one of trash talking: don’t bring up family members. It’s easy pickings. But clearly, Lotor doesn’t know the rule because he flushes and sneers. “You’re repulsive,” the long haired athlete snaps and then stomps to another corner of the platform.

“We have to beat him,” Shiro says, as serious as Keith has ever seen him.

And Keith wonders: since when were him and Shiro a ‘ _we_ ’? 

The respite doesn’t last long. They drink some water, stretch a bit, and Coran asks some really dumb dating game questions to buy them a few more minutes of rest. The last being ‘Describe your sex life in an emoji’. Lotor answers with an uninspired ‘eggplant’. Shiro says ‘rainbow’. And Keith, because he wants to get a move on and doesn’t want to lose the adrenaline rush, answers with the first thing that comes to his mind: ‘Thumbs up’. It isn’t meant to be a joke, but it garners a big laugh from the audience and Coran anyways.

Music blares from the speakers in anticipation for the final round. Keith is somehow unlucky enough to get situated between Shiro and Lotor. The pressure is immense. Keith wants to beat _both_ of them. Rub it in their perfect, high cheekboned faces. But as Keith wipes his feet on the grass and takes a starting stance, he knows he’s up against two Herculean competitors. The odds are stacked against him.

Keith grins. Because he’s always exceeded at doing the impossible.

Keith removes his damp shirt and tosses it aside. He got to see the line up of obstacles as they walked over. There’s water and mud in different stages. His shirt will only weigh him down and any advantage he can create will make a difference. 

“Golden Boy. Kral-Zera. Flyboy. Are you ready?” Coran asks, his face set in a humorless mask. They answer wordlessly. “Alright. May Cupid be with you. On your mark — ”

Shiro tosses his cap to the side.

“ — Get set — ”

Lotor hisses out a long breath.

“ — Go!”

The first two obstacles blend together, in a way. The first stage is a medium, above ground pool with a chain link fence laid across the top. Keith isn’t claustrophobic, but he can imagine the obstacle would be difficult for some. When he dives into the water and swims up, he’s under the fencing. There’s barely enough room between the water level and the barrier to breathe. The water isn’t rising so he’s fine on air; but a strong current pushes against him from the other side of the pool.

Keith latches his hands onto the chain link above and uses the leverage to pull his body sideways through the water. It’s strange, for the first time, he can’t hear the crowd or music. He also can’t see Shiro or Lotor. For all he knows, he could be in first place. Or he could be far, far behind already. All Keith can do is move as fast as he can. When he sees the edge of the fencing, he dives down and makes a hard, strong swim for the opening.

He emerges on the other side, gasping for air, but doesn’t immediately see Lotor or Shiro. Coran says something but the words are unclear through the sound of rushing water. 

The second obstacle before him is a large, fifteen foot tube — wide enough for a person to climb through. Water jets from the bottom and Keith can see it originates from the very top. He’ll have to fight against the strong streams of water and clamor his way through and up to the next platform.

Keith wades to the tunnel opening, takes a deep breath, and ducks down and inside. It’s harder than it seems. He keeps his eyes closed as he gropes around for something to grab hold of. His right hand bumps into a rope ladder. It takes him a few seconds to grab it and get a good foothold. The water isn’t so oppressive and all encompassing that there’s no room to breathe; so Keith turns his head to the side and takes a big gulp of air.

It’s messy and clumsy and Keith is glad no one can see him fumbling through the black plastic tube. Keith powers through, fishing for the ladder rung by rung, and doesn’t let up until his hand finds a flat, wooden surface. He awkwardly crawls out of the top of the tunnel like he’s forgotten how to effectively use his limbs. At least he can breathe properly.

“ — Kral-Zera takes a tumble and Flyboy is the first to emerge from his Tunnel o’ Love! He’s in the lead! — ”

Keith’s eyes fly open. 

He shuffles to the end of the platform and nearly tumbles down the exit ladder. Which is okay, because a giant pit of slushy, watery mud is there to break his fall.

The third obstacle is a large — well, pit of mud. It’s a section of four foot hills and valleys that dip down into brown, waist deep water, and curve up into slippery hills. As far as Keith can tell, there are three mounds to climb over to reach the other side. Keith splashes into the first dip, holding his arms aloft in an attempt to keep them clean. In the end, that doesn’t matter because when he gets to the side of the first muddy hill, there’s no avoiding the grime as he attempts to claw his way over.

The mud and the water make it exceedingly difficult to get a hand hold. The sludge seeps and oozes between his fingers, coating everything. Keith pulls away chunks of dirt as he claws to find purchase and enough leverage to pull himself over.

“ — Golden Boy is in the second stage now. And here comes Kral-Zera! Better get a move on, Flyboy — ”

Without looking over, Keith can tell both Lotor and Shiro are struggling just as bad, if not worse. They’re all moderately fatigued for one and two, they are significantly heavier than Keith. In this instance, Keith’s smaller size is an advantage. Gravity hates him a little bit less. So he tries taking his time. He uses his core to balance and doesn’t make any quick movements. He pauses when he feels something start to slip and waits it out rather than pushing through.

Somehow, his strategy works. He clears the first muddy hill and keeps his lead. The second hill he makes better time on, but slides head first into the marshy water on the other side. He sputters, spits, and tries to wipe his face with an already dirty arm.

When Keith takes the third hill and crawls out of the mud like the creature from the black lagoon, the crowd erupts in cheers. 

The fourth and final obstacle looms before him. As he approaches, Keith thinks: _it can’t be that easy_. It’s a long web of thick netting stretched upward at a 70 degree angle. It seems like something from an oversized child’s jungle gym rather than one of the most difficult obstacles in the Run.

Keith understands why when he starts his climb. His arms are killing him. His legs are weak. His whole core is shaking from the previous strain. The mud certainly doesn’t make things easier. And the netting is somewhat slack so keeping balance is hard. He feels so pathetic, Keith almost wants to laugh.

“ — And here they go! On the last climb! With Flyboy unexpectedly in a solid lead! They must be very tired here, folks. You can do it, boys! — ”

Keith chances a look below. Lotor is fast on his heels and Shiro is not far behind. 

He watches Shiro’s misstep happen in real time. Shiro’s foot slips through the netting and he falls through the hole all the way to his knee. He careens backwards, hands clasping for the webbing around him. It’s a long drop and tumble to the ground and Keith’s heart nearly stops. But Shiro is lucky. He hangs upside down, tangled in the rope, and barely suspended by his caught leg.

“Shiro!” Keith calls before he can stop himself.

“ — Golden Boy has fallen behind! He’s hanging on for dear life! — ”

“Keep going! Keep going!” Shiro urges, trying to lift up his heavy body and untangle his leg.

The young man below isn’t in any real danger. The fall won’t hurt that bad. But Keith hates the thought of Shiro taking third place. It eats at him. It isn’t satisfying. This isn’t how he imagined winning.

Not like this.

Keith passes a confused Lotor on his descent. The audience chitters amongst themselves and Coran balks.

“ — What’s this? Keith is back tracking! Is something wrong? — ”

He climbs down, careful not to get himself tangled too. Keith comes to a stop beside Shiro, takes his wrist, and hoists his competitor into an upright position. Shiro sits up, clutches at the net to support himself, and catches his breath. His eyes are flitting everywhere — from Keith to his leg to the platform above. Shiro is, rightly, very confused. Keith lays his head back and takes a rest. It’s over anyway.

A loud eruption from the audience tells them that Lotor has made it to the top.

“ — And Kral-Zera has done it! Folks, we have our Stud Run Champion! Who will take second place? Flyboy? Golden Boy? — ”

Keith grimaces at the sky and lazily waves his hand. “We’re comin’. We’re comin’. Hold your horses,” he says, though only Shiro can probably hear him.

Together, Keith and Shiro make their final climb; one deliberate step after another. Shiro’s legs and wingspan are longer. He naturally reaches the peak first. But when Keith glances over, he sees Shiro’s hand hovering over the platform; eyes on Keith. He’s exhausted, covered head-to-toe in mud, and his hand shakes mid air. How goddamn _considerate_. How maddeningly _graceful_. With his hesitation, Shiro is wordlessly offering a truce in the form of sharing second place. Keith reaches up a trembling arm and holds his own hand over the finish landing.

“One — ” Shiro says.

“Two — ” Keith answers.

“Three!”

They touchdown at the same time. The people in the bleachers scream and stomp their feet. Coran helps Keith to his feet and Lotor goes out of his way to pull Shiro up the rest of the way. Maybe he isn’t a total jerk. Or maybe he’s just pretending to be nice in front of a crowd.

“I don’t think you could see or hear it folks, but Keith and Shiro have just timed it so they _finished_ at the same time!” Keith is too tired to care about Coran’s suggestive turn of phrase. “What sportsmanship! What generosity! They tie for second place! What a race! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

For a winner, Lotor looks _pissed_. When the crowd cheers twice as loud, Keith realizes why: he’s stolen the thunder. Lotor may have won first place but by going back for Shiro, Keith has won over the crowd and the attention Lotor so craves. The second place tie has completely overshadowed Lotor’s glory. Keith can’t help but level the long haired athlete with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well played,” Lotor grits through his teeth.

“Likewise.”

As Coran wraps up the final round with a few anecdotes, Keith finally stands to his full height and looks at Shiro.

The young man with the black and white hair still seems stunned. He’s got a question behind his eyes that he can’t seem to push past his lips. At this point, Keith doesn’t really want him to. Because the veil has finally dropped and Keith understands where all of his pent up aggression toward Shiro is rooted.

It was never about beating Shiro at all. It was about getting his respect. His attention. It’s about that glow in his eyes when he looks up at Keith beneath muddy eyelashes. The way his smile turns suggestive. The way Keith almost immediately goes half hard, gently tenting his shorts at the most inopportune moment in front of hundreds of spectators. It’s the excitement from finishing the Run, he tells himself. But when Shiro is staring at him, mouth parted and panting, Keith knows that isn’t true. 

Keith’s got it bad.

He’s gotten neck deep without even realizing it. 

What a fucking turn of events.

A quick and dirty medal ceremony happens next. Keith is surprised to receive an actual medal — in the shape of a heart with an arrow through it. Two silvers aren’t available and Shiro insists he take the bronze, making a joke that it will match better with all the mud and the warm tone of his gold shorts. Keith doesn’t care. He’s just itching to get off that platform, away from all those eyes, and away from Shiro. He did what he came to do.

“And that, my friends, concludes this year’s Stud Run!” Coran announces, “What an incredible show of good looks and athleticism! Now, for those of you who have purchased the brown wristbands and wish to come to the field and — ”

While Coran prattles on about students entering the field and trying out the courses for themselves, Keith slips away. He avoids looking at Shiro, ducks down, and quietly slides down the ladder and back onto the grass. He snatches his discarded shirt from the fourth round starting line, pulls it back on, and heads off the field through a side entrance without a word to anyone. He takes the elastic band out of his hair and ruffles his dirty, black locks. Keith needs a shower, a set of clean clothes, and to take care of the awkward pressure between his legs. 

Also, Keith has some thoughts to sort out.

As he stalks along a relatively forgotten side path through the university’s sports buildings, the noise from the Valentine’s Day events gets further and further away. Keith is grateful to remove himself from the craziness after being the center of attention for over an hour. Just as he thinks he’s in the clear, a familiar voice calls out to him.

“Keith!”

He turns and Keith’s eyes go wide. It’s Shiro; still bare chested, his black tank hanging from the waistband of his shorts like a workout towel, and his snapback sitting where it belongs on his head. He’s bright eyed, but doesn’t have the same confidence in his shoulders as he usually does. He stands several arms lengths away from Keith, as if he’s afraid to get too close.

“Hey, you didn’t have to do that,” Shiro says and rubs the back of his neck.

Keith furrows his brow. “Do what?”

“Help me out like that. You deserved to win, Keith.”

Ugh. _Ugh._ Shiro’s compliment is not helping Keith’s growing hard on.

“Didn’t want to win like that,” Keith says, “Wanted to beat you fair and square.”

“That _was_ fair and square. I made a mistake.”

“Well, I saved you so — too bad. You’ll just have to live with it.” He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but Shiro’s presence and distracting nipples have got him on high alert.

Shiro swallows. “Right. Guess so.” He shuffles his weight. If Keith intended to throw Shiro off his game, then he’s succeeded. Keith has never seen Shiro waver like he’s doing. “Listen, uh, I know that you said you didn’t hate me. But I got this feeling that I’m not exactly your _friend_. With how things have been between us — ”

 _The point. Get to the point._

“ — But I wanted to just shoot my shot anyways because it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m hyped up on adrenaline right now so I’ve got it in me. I was wondering if you’d be interested in getting drinks — ”

The green light is near _blinding_. Keith presses the metaphorical pedal to the floor.

Keith must black out for a second because one moment he’s looking at Shiro and the next moment he’s pressed up against him with his tongue in Shiro’s mouth. 

Keith doesn’t believe in half-assing anything. If he’s going to kiss someone, it’s got to be everything. It’s teeth against lip and tongue against everything it can reach. Keith kisses like he’s stealing something away and Shiro just lets him. He opens his mouth and lets Keith do whatever he wants, barely keeping up with the brutality of it. Keith pulls at the back of Shiro’s neck and cards his fingers through the short hairs at his nape. He bites and tugs at Shiro’s lip. He moans.

The desperate noise is a surprise to even himself, but Shiro seems to like it.

Because the next thing Keith knows, Shiro has his big hands around the backs of Keith’s sore thighs. He squeezes tight and Keith gets the message. He drapes his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and jumps into Shiro’s arms, legs bracketing Shiro’s slender hips. He lifts Keith’s body like he weighs nothing; like he could hold him up like that for hours. Keith hooks his legs at the ankles and tightens, pulling their hips closer together. The outline of Shiro’s excitement through his shorts and leggings is shockingly clear.

“Oh _fu_ — ”

Keith doesn’t even get out the full curse because Shiro is moving, driving Keith’s back against the side of a nearby vending machine and knocking the wind from his lungs. But it feels so _good_. Shiro kisses him back and, trapped against metal sheeting and a very very _hard_ place, Keith can only hold on and take it. Keith throws his hands up and hooks his fingers around the top edge of the vending machine for support. But Shiro is strong and won’t let him fall. 

This is _it_ — that college experience everyone is always talking about. Being held up against a vending machine in broad daylight and dry humped by a sexy, shirtless, astrophysics major while caked in mud and sweat. Forget hazy parties, crashing on stained second hand couches, and beer pong with cheap, piss water beer. _This_ — Shiro moves his hips just right and Keith gasps out loud — is what it is _all_ about.

A loud _CRACK!_ halts their heavy petting in its tracks. A bolt previously holding the machine to the concrete ground skitters across the pathway. Shiro laughs against Keith’s lips. 

The frenzy has both of them breathless. As Keith opens his eyes and takes in the sight of Shiro flushed, wanting, face flaked with dry mud; he kind of thinks he might be in love. Which isn’t the craziest notion he’s ever had.

Now that his eyes are wide open, Keith gets the feeling Shiro isn’t interested in some hot and heavy fling. And Keith has never been one for romance, but there’s a first time for everything. Keith can roll with the punches. He’s got the instinct.

Keith nudges his nose against Shiro’s and plucks the backwards cap from Shiro’s head. He sets it on his own head, as if he’s just stolen the crown from a king. Shiro almost melts before Keith’s eyes.

“Wanna hit the showers with me?” Keith asks, playfully tapping the bill.

“Oh fuck yes.”


End file.
